


A Walk in the Park

by tseliar



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, Non-Consensual Bondage, Public Sex, Self-Rescue, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tseliar/pseuds/tseliar
Summary: Meghan goes on an evening run in the park.  Unfortunately for her, her father has enemies.  Fortunately for her, he's taught her well.
Relationships: Enemy agent/Teen daughter of his male professional rival, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	A Walk in the Park

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allyoops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/gifts).



By the time April rolls into May, the park near Meghan’s house is populated well into the evening. That’s good for her, at least by proxy; Dad won’t let her go running outside when the area is deserted. Says it’s too easy for something to happen, and no clues to follow up on for a would-be investigation.

He’d know, she supposes, but still she’s glad she can come out here now. She hates running on a treadmill indoors.

Last summer she was just a little too slow to make it onto the track team, but this summer she’s determined to do better. At least she’s only missed one year of it; she’s got three more years of high school ahead of her.

Meghan knows the trails through the park well enough, at least. Even if she’s been kept out of it for the winter, it’s been _her_ park ever since they moved here when she was only nine.

She’s most of the way through her run—today it’s a 7k, which she doesn’t do every day, but she needs to keep her endurance up—when the stranger falls in beside her. A sidelong glance tells her that he’s tall and thin, with neatly styled hair and dressed far too nicely for an evening run.

He also looks like he’s Dad’s age, which is at least a little weird even beyond his inappropriate outfit, but Meghan is old enough now that if he _does_ start hitting on her (ew) it won’t be the first time she’s had to shut someone down.

She keeps running, and the stranger stays beside her, easily keeping pace with her. Each turn he follows her through makes it weirder and weirder, and she’s about to ask what his _problem_ is when he starts talking.

“You move very nicely,” he says. His voice is even, not leering or out of breath, but it’s still a bizarre conversation opener. Did no one teach this man any _manners?_

“…thanks?” she finally says, because he seems to be waiting for an answer and she can’t think of anything else to say to that.

“I mean—your movements are very easy. No excess tension anywhere. You don’t see that in a lot of people.” He’s smiling throughout, and Meghan still has _no_ idea what to make of him. He doesn’t _sound_ like he’s hitting on her.

She doesn’t answer verbally; just makes a noncommittal vague grunt. He can take that however he wants.

“Are you headed anywhere?” he asks her casually. He isn’t taking the hint that he’s not wanted, unfortunately.

Meghan sighs. “I’m going to meet my dad,” she says, barely keeping herself from snapping at him.

There isn’t time for the stranger to say anything else before they emerge onto the edges of the grassy field leading down to the beach; Meghan stops by an old willow tree and takes a long drink from her water bottle. She swipes ineffectually at her forehead, where the dark strands of hair that have escaped from her bun are sticking to her sweaty skin.

As she does this, she looks around the park. Dad should be here already; he always arrives before she does.

Eventually she finds him; she waves, and their eyes meet. She grins at him, and for a moment he grins back.

Then his eyes slide to the stranger who’s still standing next to her, and his whole face changes.

Meghan has seen this wide-eyed fear combined with Dad’s Mr. Agent mode exactly once before, and _that_ incident was why they had to move away from their old home.

“Shit,” the stranger mutters. All hints of a smile are gone from his face.

She’s about to move away from him—run, or just walk quickly even—when he snakes out an arm to grab her and pull her close to him. And before she can start trying to get away from him, she feels the feather-light touch of a terribly sharp blade at her neck, and she holds very still.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Meghan,” he says conversationally. “And I think I can pull this out faster than you can get away, and certainly faster than your dad can get a good enough shot to hit me and not you. Be a good girl and signal him to stand down, would you?”

Meghan doesn’t nod, or speak, but she does tap a brief message against her leg in the code they made together after the _last_ time she was kidnapped. That was a little awful, and she hopes this man isn’t going to do that. Dad’s face twists, but his posture does change a little.

The stranger relaxes, and puts his knife away. “Thank you for that,” he says, and pulls her a little closer. She tries to wiggle away, but she doesn’t dare try anything too drastic lest he pull the knife on her again.

Halfhearted wiggling, it turns out, isn’t too effective against a man who can only be in Dad’s line of work. He chuckles at her attempts to free herself; with her back pressed against his chest, she feels his laughter as much as she hears it.

“You’re a smart girl, Meghan,” he says. His breath is hot against her ear. “I’m sure you understand the folly in trying _too_ hard to escape me.”

Meghan nods. The park has plenty of people in it, but in the shadow of the tree and darkening sky, most people won’t see them here if they don’t know to look. And he’s got reflexes faster than hers.

“Good,” says the stranger. “Then I’m sure you won’t object too much to this.”

One hand is around her lower ribs, pinning her arms by her sides and keeping her against him. His other hand leaves its former position of threatening to cut her throat and trails lightly across her bare stomach.

Meghan’s whole body convulses against that touch, and she has to bite down on her lips to keep from giving a high-pitched yelp; her braces cut uncomfortably into the inside of her mouth. She wishes she were wearing more clothes, or that the man had used a firmer touch; she knows how to suppress her ticklish reaction there, but it only works if she knows it’s coming.

“Now, now,” the man murmurs, “that won’t do at all. I thought we had a discussion about flailing around.”

“It won’t happen again,” says Meghan shortly, because she really _doesn’t_ want him to lose patience with her, and she knows it’s coming enough to counteract her reaction.

“Still,” says the stranger, “I can’t just let disobedience like that go without punishment.”

Dad is still watching her, hawk-like, still kept from doing anything by the threat against her. Meghan almost wishes he wasn’t seeing this; it was bad enough that she was helpless as a nine-year-old. Nearly six years and quite a lot of training on, it’s downright embarrassing.

Of course that’s when the stranger, whose grip on her ribs is now uncomfortably tight, goes back to touching her. This time it’s not her stomach that he’s touching, though; he’s running a light hand over her breasts.

She clenches her jaw, wills herself not to react. No one’s touched her there since her chest started growing in; one of her yearmates, one of the boys, tried once and ended up getting kneed in the balls.

Meghan would love to knee this man in the balls, too, but he’s a highly trained agent, not a stupid high schooler, and he has a knife to pull on her, and the angle is all wrong.

“Smile for your father,” says the stranger as he slips his hand into her sports bra, running roughly callused fingers over her soft light brown skin. 

She doesn’t smile, of course, though she does briefly close her eyes when a young couple walks past them, absorbed in conversation with each other. They're near enough that she could almost reach out and touch them, were her arms free. If they turned, they’d see her, and then—she doesn’t know what would happen then. She doesn’t know what the stranger might do.

When he starts playing with her left nipple, she gasps softly, and her stomach turns over. It sends something odd through her; all she really knows is that she hates it, and wishes it would stop. Wishes the whole thing could just be over.

“You’ve got very nice tits,” says the stranger. “Not quite as big as I prefer them, but I suppose that’s to be expected given your age.”

He switches to her right nipple, and she swallows hard. He laughs again.

“If you like that,” he says, “I bet I know something you’ll _really_ like.”

Meghan wants to protest, say that she doesn’t like this at _all_ , but before she can work out a way to say it that won’t get her stabbed, the stranger’s fingers are sliding down her stomach and under the waistband of her running shorts and her underwear beneath.

She clenches her jaw against the urge to scream. It can’t—

It won’t help her here.

Dad’s eyes are full of horror, and she has to look away. It’s bad enough that this is happening; thinking about how Dad can _see it happening_ to her makes her want to hide in a corner and never come out.

The stranger’s hand slides lower, until his roughened fingers are sliding over something between her legs that sends a foreign sensation jolting through her.

“Never even touched yourself, have you,” says the stranger, and Meghan doesn’t reply because it’s true, and she’s never felt this kind of thing, but she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of _admitting_ it.

His hand is still sliding between her legs, giving her strange unwanted feelings, before he pauses.

“You’re probably ready for a little something more,” he says, and slides his fingers farther back, starts pressing one _into_ her, and she tries desperately to break away.

She’s tried to use tampons before; they always have scared her, though, and she’d chicken out and go back to her pads. She’s never had anything in her, like the stranger’s finger is, like _two_ of the stranger’s fingers are—

It hurts. It _hurts,_ and maybe he got her a little aroused first—maybe that’s what those feelings are, she doesn’t _know_ —maybe he got her just wet—that’s the word, isn’t it?—enough that he wouldn’t tear anything by easing his fingers into her, but it’s a new and awful sensation, him slowly pumping his fingers in and out, adding a third one so she feels stretched to her limit and past, and as the minutes drag on and he keeps up his slow, steady assault of her body, she finds herself crying bitter tears.

When he seems to decide she isn’t full enough already and slips his pinky in alongside the rest of his fingers, her pain redoubles, and she starts getting a little lightheaded, even as she lets out a tiny, involuntary choked sob.

The stranger pauses, his fingers wedged as far in as they’ll go, and shifts her a little. This makes his fingers move inside her, and she sobs again.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Have I gone too far? I don’t want to hurt you, you know.” He begins moving his fingers again—in and out, in and out.

And Meghan _laughs,_ for what else can she do? “Could’ve fooled me,” she says hoarsely.

The stranger shakes his head. “You’ve got to set boundaries, Meghan,” he says, sounding as sincere as anything. “Elsewise people will think they can walk all over you.”

Then he starts to fuck her harder with his fingers, harder and rougher and it hurts still more, until just a minute later when he stops and pulls his fingers free again. Meghan gasps in relief.

She raises her eyes again, sees Dad across from her; even this far away she thinks he’s been crying.

“Come on,” the stranger is saying, “a girl should know how she tastes, don’t you think?” And before she can react he slides his fingers into her mouth and presses some sort of capsule against her braces; it bursts, and a curious numbness spreads from her mouth through the rest of her body until she knows no more.

* * *

Meghan wakes slowly, her head aching from whatever the stranger dosed her with. She’s still sore between her legs, too, an unpleasant reminder of what was done to her.

She… doesn’t know where she is. But this at least is something she knows how to do: without moving or opening her eyes, she knows already that she’s lying in a bed between cotton sheets, curled up on her side. Her hands are bound in front of her with something silky smooth, and she’s entirely naked now, without even her sports bra and running shorts. But her braces are unchanged, and her hair is untouched, and that at least is good.

She can’t hear anyone near her, and she dares open her eyes. She’s in a hotel room, in a typical hotel bed, under only a thin sheet—the stranger didn’t bother to cover her up any more than that, it seems.

After double- and triple-checking that the stranger isn’t in the room, Meghan reaches into her mouth—awkwardly, for she isn’t used to doing this with her hands bound together—and taps out a long, complicated sequence against her braces.

Her teeth _are_ being straightened by them, they do have the function they seem to, but Dad’s been careful with her ever since she was taken the last time, and the braces, like so many of her things, serve a dual function.

In this case, they’re a weak beacon; if she isn’t too high up in the hotel, Dad will be able to locate her just driving around town.

Hopefully she isn’t too high up. She doesn’t want to think about what else the stranger might do to her, given the chance.

When she’s finished activating it and had just enough time to extract her hands from her mouth and dry them on the sheets, she hears the door swing open, brushing over the carpet.

“Oh, lovely. You’re awake,” says the stranger. “You slept long enough that I wondered if I’d maybe given you too much.”

“Why am I naked?” asks Meghan bluntly, for she is _tired_ of this man and his games.

“Had to check your clothes for tracking devices,” says the stranger. “You know how it is, I’m sure.”

“I suppose I do.”

The stranger sighs then, and shakes his head, the very model of contrition. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and those are as calm and cold as they’ve always been.

If anything the hotel room is a little too warm, but Meghan still shivers as he steps around the bed to sit facing her, reaching out a callused hand to gently stroke her cheek and hair.

Were her hands free, she could deal serious damage to his hand. But they aren’t, and she’s too trapped to risk angering him. He seems to almost like her, in an awful twisted way; she doesn’t want him to decide otherwise.

“I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” he says after a minute or two of petting her head. “I was overeager, and you suffered for it. I assure you I will not repeat the mistake.”

Meghan could ask what he means, but she thinks she knows already, and she really doesn’t want to hear him say the accursed words. Doesn’t want it to be the case that he’s planning to fuck her again. Not knowing that he’s going to fuck her again is, she thinks, better than knowing he _is._

He leaves off stroking her hair to draw back the sheet, leaving her utterly bare for him to see; she curls further in on herself.

“Now that won’t do at all,” says the stranger. “You’re a very pretty girl, Meghan, and you must know that I’ve already seen everything you have—I _am_ the one who put you in that bed, after all.”

“You’re the one who told me to set boundaries,” she snaps back. “You don’t need to see it _again_.”

He only laughs. “You’re quite a little spitfire, aren’t you,” he says. “And see, you’re learning. But this isn’t a good boundary to set—I’ve a treat for you, I think you’ll like it.”

Then he grabs her by the ankles and, though she struggles far more than she did in the park with a knife near her jugular, he still manages to pull her onto her back with her bound hands over her head, legs bound apart.

“Absolutely exquisite,” he says softly, eyes raking over her. He traces a line down her body from her collarbones, just enough pressure to not tickle as he drags his finger down between her breasts, across her stomach, through her thin pubic hair and down to press lightly against her entrance. She shudders against the touch.

“I really do apologize,” the stranger murmurs, as much to himself as to her, she thinks. “I’ve tainted your first sexual encounter with unwanted pain.”

Meghan would laugh, if she didn’t want to cry so badly, at the utter absurdity of the man who’s violated her once already and plans to do so again talking about _tainted sexual encounters._

And then he doesn’t go for his fingers, or even his cock. Instead he crouches down, out of her line of sight, and she doesn’t know what he will do until she feels his hands on her spread thighs and his breath hot between her legs.

He licks her then, and she wouldn’t have expected that to feel at all good but it _does,_ somehow. And the stranger is much more experienced and knowledgeable than her; he’s using his tongue and his hands in ways she never imagined, and soon her hips are jerking upwards against his mouth, quite without her permission. Her cunt is squeezing desperately around absolutely nothing, and she wishes there could be something, _anything_ in it even as she hates herself for wishing it.

She—something happens, some unknown wave of—pleasure, she thinks, beyond her previous desperate arousal. The stranger keeps plying her with his mouth as she comes, only letting up when her body stills upon the bed.

Meghan lies there, dazed and exhausted and not paying much attention to her surroundings; as such she doesn’t fully notice what the stranger is doing, doesn’t recognize the sounds of him undressing for what they are.

So it comes as an awful surprise when he turns to her, as naked as she is, and easily slides his cock into her still-slick cunt.

She whimpers, as much from dismay as from pain; his cock is thick, but not as much as four fingers at once. It’s certainly longer than those were, though, easily sliding deeper into her than his fingers ever did.

“You’re very receptive to all this,” says the stranger, beginning to move his hips, a leisurely pattern of in and out, in and out. “And once you’re properly wet, this is a wonderful cunt to use. Not too deep or too shallow, not too tight or too loose.”

Meghan says nothing. While she doesn’t want to react to anything being done to her, she can’t stop herself from starting to silently cry.

The stranger, utterly oblivious to or—more likely—uncaring of her tears, picks up his pace, becoming rougher and harder as well as he goes on. She’s wet enough still that it doesn’t hurt the way it did at the park, but it’s triggering nothing of what him _licking_ at her managed to do.

At the end his thrusts become erratic, and she feels when he comes and floods her insides with his semen. She gives a strangled half-scream when it begins, but there’s nothing she can do; for all that she tries to pull away, she can’t move much, and he chuckles darkly as he follows her through all her escape attempts.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You won’t have a souvenir to remember me by—I haven’t any STDs and the sedative I gave you had contraceptives mixed in.”

He waits a moment or two after he comes, balls-deep in her body, before carelessly pulling out, leaving her bound in place with her legs spread wide.

“Be a good girl and don’t go anywhere,” he says as he turns to get dressed. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

She does laugh this time, a tiny bitter thing. The stranger is entirely certain that she’s completely at his mercy; all his words are only meant to mock.

The stranger leaves without another word, and Meghan waits, still and silent, listening for any sign that he plans to return, for a count of three hundred.

There’s nothing. The hotel room is absolutely silent and almost eerily still.

So. Time to get herself out of here; with a few hours it should be child’s play, though she’ll certainly go as fast as she can.

The first thing is her legs. She could try freeing her hands first, but that’ll be easier if she can look—which she can’t right now. And anyway, what with how she was struggling, she can’t imagine her bonds are _too_ sturdy.

When she realizes just how sloppy the bindings on her legs are, her lip curls in disdain even as she’s grateful for it. They’re just strips of material looped around her calves and stuffed under the edge of the mattress; with her body the only extra weight it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for her to work her legs free.

She closes them at once, turning onto her side and moving to bring her hands in front of her face to examine the ropes binding her. Part of her wants to cry yet more tears, but she pushes that down; she can cry later. She can cry when she’s _safe_.

This is how the stranger expected this to go, Meghan thinks: he would go off, leave her bound in the position he’d put her in, and come back to find her humiliated and in pain from being so restrained. And maybe he plans to rape her yet _again;_ she doesn’t want to know. But it’s not going to go like that, for Meghan isn’t an ordinary girl, and the stranger did not think to take out the pins hidden under her bun.

The angle is too awkward to undo the knots with her fingers, but she works the pins into the knots and steadily loosens them even as her heart pounds, an anxious response that really isn’t helping. She can only hope that the stranger did not lie when he told her how long he’d be off.

Her hands are slick with nervous sweat and her fingertips are red and irritated when finally the ropes come undone, and she pulls her hands free, flexing her fingers and rolling out her wrists. They’re a little stiff, but nothing too bad. The pins go back in her hair, and she slowly sits up.

Her body aches in several different ways, some which she wouldn’t have expected. Her abdominal muscles are sore, and so are her hips, and—well. So is her cunt, of course. But that much at least is to be expected.

Meghan doesn’t have time to dwell on this. She needs to get herself out of here, as soon as she can; and to do _that_ she’ll need clothes. Hers would be best; anything at all would be better than her current nudity.

She stands on shaky legs, and carefully picks her way across the carpeted floor, scanning the room. There’s nothing useful here that she can see, nothing beyond what the stranger used to bind her and ordinary hotel fixtures. But she slips into the bathroom anyway, just to check, and to her great surprise she finds her own clothes there, dropped in a haphazard pile.

Of course she _wants_ to put them on immediately, but she doesn’t do that. Instead she runs all the fabric carefully through her fingers, checking for anything unusual, but if the stranger planted a tracking device on her clothes she isn’t skilled enough to find it. She takes one of the towels and cleans herself up enough to put her clothes on without feeling utterly vile.

She wishes terribly as she gets dressed that she could take a shower now, but this isn’t the right place, and in any case, her body is a crime scene. She’ll have to consult Dad before doing anything to destroy the… the evidence. That’s a terrible way to think of herself, but it’s detached, at least.

It’s time for her to go. She doesn’t know where she is, but it shouldn’t be too terribly difficult to find out; it _is_ a hotel, after all.

So Meghan leaves the bathroom, glancing around as she does so, and swallows before crossing the room to the door. She halfway thinks that the stranger will be there, waiting for her, but the softly carpeted hallway is empty. It isn’t clear which path will take her out, so she picks a direction and starts walking.

In the end she leaves the hotel without being caught by the stranger or challenged by anyone else, and when she steps out the doors to the curb, Dad is there, just getting out of his car.

“Dad!” she calls, and she runs to him in spite of her aching body and unsteady legs, and flings herself into his arms. He holds her tight, a fiercely protective grip which is nothing at all like how the stranger held her.

“Meghan,” he breathes, half disbelieving. “I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“I’ll be okay,” she says, because she _isn’t_ okay just now but she’s _going_ to be and that’s what matters. “I’ll be okay.”

Dad only holds her tighter at that.


End file.
